


Family

by bluemoonwings



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Family Secrets, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoonwings/pseuds/bluemoonwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny Flint, apprentice and assistant to Madame Vastra, receives an unexpected visitor on a rare day off. A bit of exploration into Jenny's troubled family life before she met Vastra.</p><p>This fic can stand alone, but it does help to read the parent fic "Beauties and Beasts: a Love Story from Paternoster Row." For those who have, this takes place late in the chapter entitled "Sister" sometime early in the case of the Lambeth Poisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I alluded to only some of this very briefly in the parent fic Beauties and Beasts, and didn't want to leave it hanging. In the end, Jenny will grow and be at peace but it will be Vastra who will pursue justice for her. 
> 
> I also wanted to show Jenny's strength. It is distinctly different from Vastra's in many ways.

 

Part I: Blood

 

Jenny Flint had drawn a conclusion. She had never imagined herself as much of a mechanic, but her tinkering abilities and knowledge of complex machines had grown over the last few months. While this had been pleasing to her, having been able to fix or create not only utilitarian aids but occasionally, even functional art, she was now forced to a difficult understanding. Despite all her growth, and indeed perhaps despite _any_ future growth, her skills would probably never quite equal, much less surpass Vastra's ability to break things.

She stood at the kitchen table, which was her temporary work station, blew an exasperated column of air out to clear some stray bangs from her face, and pushed her magnifying goggles off her face onto her head. Before her, in several pieces, was a remote control surveillance drone that Vastra had used on her last mission. It had resembled a smooth tetrapod spider with a silver matte finish, one large green eye (a camera), and one poking arm (probe). It was now more of a saucer, set away from her, and disassembled legs, which she was working on. The gears in all had been crushed and in some cases even slightly melted, but she had had some measure of success replacing the irreparable components with odds and ends from her junk box. The legs, however, were the easiest part, as they operated much like a clock in their constant opening and closing, and turning of little internal wheels. She dreaded dealing with the head.

To say the drone had been abused on its last mission would be an understatement tantamount to a lie. It had been used to spy on a target, subsequently kicked, shot, scraped up, submerged in water, dragged out, presumably by Vastra, then chewed on and _swallowed_ by some infernal creature she had stumbled upon, and partially digested before the Silurian had managed to track it down, slay it, gut it, and retrieve the machine. It was in this condition that the poor little drone had been delivered to Jenny late last night as she had sat up, repairing some other less important piece of equipment that Vastra had managed to break on their main case, for which they _still_ had almost no leads.

With an exasperated sigh and a loud thunk, the thing had landed squarely in the middle of her work station, still mostly covered with gastric acid from the as yet unnamed but deadly creature, and begun dissolving through her leather pad on impact, inertia flinging a tiny droplet onto Jenny's wrist, leaving a burn the size of a lentil. With a shout that was both outraged and startled, Jenny had jumped up out of her chair and seized a pair of very thick reinforced smith's gloves from her tool box. She had tossed the acidic probe into the stone wash basin with nary a thought to what it actually was, and glared at Vastra without needing words, until the lizard-woman had come over and helped her clean it off, her thick scales impervious to the caustic acid.

Now, the next morning, Jenny was having to try very hard to work on this godforsaken thing to get any data off of its storage banks that might be usable to Vastra. It was looking pretty hopeless in her opinion but any day that she wasn't chopping wood until her palms peeled off, or working undercover in a brothel, was probably worth looking at a machine. She was using a tiny force field generator that Vastra had found for her to try to power the drone enough to get the data. The light slowly began to glow, weakly, but definitely responding, when there was a loud knocking at the door. _Who would that be?_ Jenny wondered, as they weren't expecting guests and Vastra was probably hibernating upstairs. She shrugged, laid her equipment down, and straightened her apron as she walked to the front door.

She swung it open without looking and announced, “Who may I ask is calling? Regrettably, the Madame is indisposed--”

“Jenny.”

She blinked up into the sunlight to see a tall man in a hat, whose face was in shadows. He wore a fine black suit with shiny lapels, a silken blood red tie matched a folded triangle of handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. Both matched his equally fine hatband. She could not see his face until he removed his hat and leaned slightly to the side so that the sun was not behind him. Her fingers lifted to her mouth as her eyes widened.

“Jenny, it is you, right?”

She dipped into a low curtsy for the gentleman. “Forgive me, Sir, I was taken off guard. I shall fetch Madame Vastra right away.”

A hand reached out and landed on her arm. She looked up into shale-gray eyes, a rounded fair face, and a smart mustache that matched the hair-- dark reddish brown with only a bit of gray at the temples and tips. The man smiled. “Please, Jenny. It's been years. Call me Uncle.”

*

Thomas Blackthorn was not an old man in years but he made up for it in experiences. The youngest of five brothers, he had enlisted in the army, earned awards and eventually a commission for bravery somewhere in the wider empire, and had been later knighted. Right after becoming a lieutenant and traveling all over hither and yon, he had settled down with an older woman called Beatrice, who had worked in the laundry room at his college where he had studied law. This woman had been Jenny's youngest aunt, the fourth sibling of her father, who had been the eldest of his brood. Jenny knew that story by heart, as everyone, including her mother and grandfather had raved about this Cinderella story of a talented military officer-turned-lawyer even before, a few years after they had married, he had been knighted. (Only her father, a stoic and stern man, had been silent on the matter of his charmed and handsome brother-in-law.) She could not help but recall the story now and realize, with some surprise, that it was as bitter today as it had been when she was fourteen and it had been current, and equally so for the day she had been sixteen and cast out of her father's house.

“What can I do for you, Uncle?” she forced a smile and her memories into the back of her mind. She did not want to let him in.

“Jenny, please I know it has been some time, but you're still my favorite niece. Can't I come in? Will your employer mind?” His voice as kindly and a little embarrassed like a schoolboy coming to call on a girl for the first time. Without speaking or looking up at his face again, Jenny let the door swing open and showed him into the parlor.

 

Jenny held back her questions as she served tea in a floral china set that Madame Vastra reserved for visitors, and tried not to bristle at finding her visitor in the wingback chair that was her mistress's. Demurely, eyes averted, she waited until he took a sip of the chamomile herbal tea and regarded her. “Please, Jenny, do sit,” he smiled at her congenially, and she also sat down, poured for herself, and brought her cup to her lips without actually drinking. He didn't notice. “I'm sure you're wondering why I've come to see you.”

“How did you know where to find me?” she couldn't help but ask. She continued to pantomime drinking, hiding her face as much as possible by the rim of her cup.

Thomas chuckled. “It was quite an ordeal, let me say, but knighthood does have its benefits and Scotland Yard was quite accommodating, especially given that your employer has some dealings with them? A detective, was it?”

Jenny still wouldn't look at him. It was unseemly for a maid to do so, even if she was his niece by marriage. “Yes, the Madam is a consultant and informant, Sir.”

“Well I would love to call on her when she is free to treat with me,” Thomas replied in a grand sweeping fashion. “She has done our family a great service by taking care of you, Jenny. Look how fat you are. She must treat you well.” He had meant no offense on her weight by his words, she knew, but his patronizing tone did manage to annoy her. Eating well had nothing on the eight miles she had run only two days prior or the beatings she had endured only yesterday in combat drills.

“She has been most gracious,” Jenny replied evenly, and without emotion. She hated it, but allowed him to touch her chin and make her look at him.

“Beatrice is dead,” he whispered with sorrowful eyes.

Had Jenny not set down her cup she would have dropped it. “You're lying,” she whispered, fighting her tears as he shook his head sadly.

“No, she fell ill only a month ago. The doctors say it was consumption but I've never seen anyone succumb so soon.” He looked down at his shiny patent leather shoes, expensive imports, custom made by the look of them. “I looked for you but didn't find you until now.”

“When?” was all she asked.

“Two weeks ago. Your sister came from France to join your parents and me in burying her. I wanted you to be there, Jenny--” He hung his head.

“Magdalena was in France?” Jenny asked, still numb from shock.

Her uncle looked up. “Yes. Beatrice and I had no children, and neither did any of our siblings except for your father and mother so, we decided that their daughters should have a real aristocrat's education. She is to be presented at court soon.” He paused, smiled uneasily, “It was our intention to offer you the same.” He stroked her cheek and all of her discipline kept her from flinching.

“Is Maggie happy? Can I see her?” Jenny asked, aware that a possible weakness was showing.

Thomas's handsome face twisted into an expression of remorse again, but a different kind. He didn't answer immediately so she knew what it meant. “Mum and Da...don't want to see me.”

“Jenny, they just don't understand you,” He held his cup out for more tea, which she poured. He took another sip, savored it, and looked at her as he might a peer. “Come home with me. I can help you. We can be...family.” He dropped his napkin and she grabbed it off the floor and made to get another one for him, but he stopped her and pulled out his red silk handkerchief. It was monogrammed, she realized, in gold lettering, with his initials.

“They put me out. What makes you think they'll take me in now?” Jenny asked, wringing the soiled napkin between her hands for a moment before she managed to stop herself.

Thomas stood and clutched her by the shoulders. “Jenny, what if...I took you in? I am a man of considerable means now. You've been disinherited by your parents but if you come with me instead, we will still be family.” Their eyes met and held, his, hopeful, and hers skeptical but otherwise unreadable.

He let her go, and took a few steps across the Persian rug, deep in thought. “Of course, there's the small matter of your...affliction.” She stiffened and clenched her teeth but inclined her head as if in acquiescence. “I know a doctor who can help you!”

“Respectfully, Sir, I am grateful for what you have done, but I require no doctor,” Jenny replied quietly, laying the napkin upon the tray with the tea set.

“Come now, I know your secret,” Thomas pressed on, approaching her closer than propriety might allow an uncle with his grown niece. Jenny pressed her lips together and feigned total ignorance.

“Nobles have secrets,” she answered nonchalantly, “mere servants have needs and naught else.”

He laughed now, low in his throat and she thought he sounded almost like he was growling at her. When he didn’t back away, didn’t quite stop laughing even as he took another step toward her, she decided that he absolutely was growling at her. “Oh? So have you forgotten Mary Winchester so soon? Or Sarah Kells, was it? Curious kisses between playmates? If so, dear Jenny, then surely we can simply bring you home and into your mum and da’s arms just like that. Of course… you are a bit old, pretty as you are. You still speak like a baseborn louse as well. We would have to fix that. Perhaps an extended honeymoon would be useful. I imagine Maggie would be so embarrassed...”

“My sister loves me almost as much as I love her,” Jenny replied airily, “and surely Madame Vastra would let me continue on even if I did go home. It isn’t a far walk, and I could help pay for…”

“Is she in your thrall as well, Jenny?” He interrupted her, and she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, prompting him to touch her face, just there beside her beauty mark.

“Beg your pardon?”

“This mysterious employer of yours,” Thomas replied as if she were stupid, “Why would someone of her… albeit infamous…renown employ a match girl as her house maid? Do you know what I’m thinking right now, Jenny?” She stepped back, not in fear, but he took another step toward her anyway.

“I’m not a mind reader, Sir,” she answered with her eyes cast down despite his hand on her chin. She hadn’t lied, exactly, but she didn’t have to.

“Who is Madame Vastra? Some wealthy widow with a taste for young women? I would have words with her about continuing your…corruption,” he snarled at her, now so close that she could smell smoke on his breath, and fixed her eyes, instead of on his, on his red monogramed handkerchief which hung limply from his pocket. “You’re sick, Jenny! I can get you help, and we can be a family again. Is that not what you want?”

“I do not think family means to you what it might to me, Sir,” Jenny felt her temper couple with her hurt and burn at the boundaries of her discipline. “And I would thank you not to insult Madame in her own house. It would be terrible for me to explain away.”

“What does it matter? You will be coming home.” He announced. “Where, God-willing, you will be cured and welcomed and then we can be married. Surely you’ve forgiven me for last time, Jenny, I was young.” Again, his hands were upon her, this time at her waist, and digging slightly into her dress to the flesh beneath. This time, she deftly disentangled herself, and picked up the tea tray, effectively creating a barrier between them.

“I have work to finish,” she replied, turning toward the door, “May I see you out?”

“Don’t walk away from me, Genevieve!” He barked, reminding her of his station. He was a man used to getting what he wanted.

She rounded on him, eyes blazing now. “Do not call me that! _Ever_!” she spat out, rage bringing trembles to her fingers which clenched on the handles of the tray, knuckles white. “Don’t you even dare!” Setting the tray down on an end table, she turned to put him out. She took a few long strides and her fingers brushed the door when he grabbed her now by her apron strings and yanked her back to face him. 

“I can do more for you than some amateur detective,” he murmured as if purring to a lover, but with menace beneath it now, “Come with me, as I am soon to be Lorded. We are family and you belong with me. Lady Blackthorn—does that not have a ring to it?”

“Take your leave now, Sir, and never return to this place,” Jenny’s fury was nearly blinding her, but she forced herself to stay composed.

“Stupid little whore!” Thomas roared, his mouth twisting into a mask of aggression, and raised his hand to lay it smartly across her face to show her her place. Belatedly, he noticed that Jenny raised her chin defiantly to take the slap, eyes boring into him, never flinching. He looked at his raised hand now, dumbly, and confused, as now there was another hand, gloved and slender, clenched around his wrist so hard he was already losing feeling.

There beside him, from out of nowhere, was a woman in a sumptuous black gown, shrouded by a veil. “Move to touch my maid again, and you are likely to lose your hand,” came a clipped and haughty voice from beneath the layer of nearly opaque lace. He struggled to free his hand, failed, tried again, and succeeded, but only because the woman had allowed it. This frightened him more than anything.

“Madame Vastra, I presume?” he huffed, straightening the lapels of his suit.

“You are correct, but you are an uninvited guest,” the woman replied. He scrutinized her and got the impression of a slender build and ice blue eyes beneath. Nothing else was forthcoming.

“Apologies, Ma’am, Sir Blackthorn was just leaving,” Jenny piped up from behind him, her eyes going from glaring at him to lowered away from her mistress, professional and deferent once more, as if he were not standing just there. He turned back to Madame Vastra as if to invade her space as well, and found her to be unyielding.

“What have you _done_ to her?” he demanded. “And how dare you—she should be with her family.”

Madame Vastra canted her head to one side, as if curious, and he got a flash of her eyes like cerulean lights. “I took a bit of flint and added steel, Sir. Are you surprised to find a fire?” She straightened and gestured toward the open door, which Jenny now held. “She is an adult, and under my protection. Good day, Sir.”

He wanted to protest further. Who did this woman think she was? But it wasn’t Madame Vastra who convinced him. Instead, it was Jenny, who held out his handkerchief. He had apparently dropped it but he didn’t recall. As he moved to take it, he looked into her eyes, intending to say something, do something, but her beautiful face was a porcelain mask, emotionless, as though he were a stranger. Except for those eyes. Those dark brown eyes that had always reminded him of a hart’s, innocent, harmless, and huntable, were now hard and cold like a predator. It was seeing this change that made his blood run a little cold. Without a word, he strode out the door and kept walking, not even hearing the door slam and lock behind him.

 

Jenny took a heartbeat to lay her palms against the cool wood of the door and steady her nerves after she had locked it. Behind her, she could sense her mistress waiting. She turned to apologize for disturbing her much needed rest, to offer her tea, or anything, but Vastra spoke first.

“Jenny, why didn’t you defend yourself?”

“I was cocky and didn’t expect him to actually hit me,” Jenny lied immediately. Vastra’s lack of response told her that she had seen through the poor attempt at deception. “How much of that did you witness?”

For a second, Vastra was as still as a stone garden angel, but in a blink, was near, and holding Jenny’s wrist. She turned it over and the hidden blade that Jenny carried slid out. “Enough to know that you held back when you could have killed him before waking me with his outbursts.”

“I apologize for allowing a scene, Madame.”

“I don’t bloody care, Jenny! Who does that knave think he is? What did he hang over you? Did he threaten you? What was he even talking about… ‘last time’ anyway?” Vastra let her go and pulled her veil away from her face so she could peer into Jenny’s directly with great tenderness. To her surprise and not inconsiderable concern, she found Jenny’s countenance as masked as it had been for the last few minutes.

“Madame Vastra, please forgive me for not honoring the grace of your instruction,” Jenny began very formally, “but you see, everyone has always thought me useless or stupid or weak. No one has ever seen me, so why should they now? I know who I am, and that they are wrong, and I don’t need to share what makes me special with someone like him. Let him think what he likes.”

Vastra reached up as if to touch her hair in a gesture of affection, and noticed Jenny’s eyes, welling up with tears that she was fighting back. What she had said was not a lie. Jenny was not an egotistical person, and truly did not care what idiots thought of her. There was more to it, though. She didn’t touch Jenny on the head but rather squeezed her shoulder. “I see you, Jenny. I did not always, but I do now. Rely on that.”

“Yes Ma’am I know.” Jenny tried to force a smile and her tears began to leak so Vastra turned her head to give her privacy, and held out a white handkerchief to her. She followed her maid quietly back into the kitchen, where Jenny sat back down in front of her project and began to return to work. Beneath her skin, Vasta sensed a hundred different emotions. She put some tea on for them and sat in silence, watching Jenny work with more focus and vision than ever before. The drone would not power, but its legs were all but fixed and she began disassembling the head as though she had done so a hundred times before.

Vastra poured for both of them, and brought her cup to her lips as Jenny ignored her own and continued to work. “Why does that man wish to commit incest with you?” she asked bluntly, regretting it a little as Jenny visibly flinched.

“He was married to my aunt. My father’s youngest sister, Beatrice. So we aren't blood.” Jenny explained robotically. “I went to live with them briefly after…after…well, after I left my parents’ house.”

Something awful was being painted in Vastra’s mind, and she realized that it wasn’t only her own supposition but something leaking through the cracks in Jenny’s mental armor. “Tell me what that man did to you,” Her voice to her apprentice was steady and lethal like a cobra prepared to strike. She encouraged Jenny to take some tea and she did.

“Nothing really,” Jenny promised, her tone absent of outright subversion but heavy with something else. She took a long swig of tea and sighed. “Look, I would tell you, maybe, but when I think back to that time… I just… I can’t.” Whatever was seeping through the cracks in her wall was rushing out even faster, so much that it almost sickened Vastra.

“I understand, Jenny,” Vastra assured her, “In fact I figured as much.”

Vastra didn’t even have the decency to look surprised as Jenny’s eyes grew heavy and her vision swam. The last thing the maid did was place her teacup down on the saucer before she was slumping forward onto the table, her mind deserting her body for the ether of the dreamworld.

 

 

 

 


	2. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenny's most painful secret is revealed through her recurring nightmare (as seen in Beauties and Beasts). Vastra's resulting rage is primal and murderous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add a possible trigger warning, but I promise it doesn't get too crazy. Keep in mind that in the end, Vastra is there with her and is going to avenge her. They're family now.

Part II: Nightmare

 

 

 

Vastra was not in the habit of asking for permission for things, often due to reptilian social faux-pas, but this was an entirely different kind of situation. Jenny didn't realize that Vastra had seen her uncle place his hands on her in a way that had made the detective want to flay him by inches over a roaring fire. Out of respect for her apprentice, she had stayed her hand and not intervened until the scoundrel had had the audacity to try to strike her. When later in the kitchen Jenny had tried to tell her and stuttered uncharacteristically, unable to even bring herself to convey an old story, it had taken everything within her not to track down the soon-to-be Lord Thomas Blackthorn and wrench the story out of him instead. Surely he didn't need all ten fingers on his wretched hands, but she somehow doubted that Jenny would have approved.

Instead, she had done something else her apprentice would not have approved of, and drugged her instead. It had been a light dose of a very slightly psychotropic Silurian sedative in her tea, which would allow her to mist over only the very forefront of her thoughts, which were currently in great turmoil over the recent visit of her slimy ape uncle. Whatever memories she now reviewed, whatever triggers, thoughts, or fears, Vastra would see them like a moving picture shot in the first-person, or however Jenny visualized them. She had put up a strong front that Vastra admired and found attractive, but the fear that had washed through her strong enough to wake her mistress from her nap even before voices had been raised, had stabbed her coldly in the heart.

Now Vastra was here in Jenny's mind searching desperately for what her Uncle Tom had done to her. She had not expected to find herself here, however.

Jenny Flint was having the nightmare. It was specific, based in memory, and while a few particulars changed here and there, the narrative arc and factual details remained consistent each time she had it, which was often. The only difference was that this time, Madame Vastra was with her, undetected.

It was strange to feel herself in human skin, Vastra realized as she ran through dark streets in Jenny's body. It was a cold, dark night, the lamps having been neglected in the streets, and a bit of a mist rolling in. She wasn't entirely sure why she was running at first, but Jenny's heart was a hammering of primal fear. Shadows elongated before her as she struggled to keep her grip on her basket of matches. Disembodied hands tore at her apron strings, her hair, and her sleeves. Footfalls sounded like canon rounds behind her, but the streets were empty, unfamiliar, and uncaring.

Mammalian fear was quite striking, Vastra observed as it gave Jenny a rush of speed and coordination around a tight corner, hoping to lose her pursuers. They were laughing now, and not in a way that men laughed, but rather in the way that demons might, if Vastra truly believed in such things. She was Jenny right now, though, and so she was completely terrified. She could feel every sensation that Jenny experienced, from the hard clattering of her cheap, second-hand shoes, to the scratch of coarse fabric that made her dress, the cold, sick sweat down the back of her neck, and the thought that drifted into her mind. _Thirteen Paternoster Row Thirteen Paternoster Row Thirteen Paternoster Row_. She (Jenny) did not know why this kept surfacing in her mind, because in this dream world, she was sixteen, alone, and unknown. On that night, that fateful night in real life when they had met, they had been on the other side of town and Jenny had just been running. To experience the chase from the beginning as the prey rather than the predator of predators was something that Vastra vowed to help Jenny never do again.

A strike to her heel sent her sprawling, the wind knocked out of her painfully as she landed on rib and elbow, sending books of matches flying everywhere, and the basket out of reach. _Get up get up!_ Vastra cried out in her mind, but Jenny's body had not been conditioned yet to fight. Surprisingly, she did roll and manage to right herself fairly quickly though. She didn't look back to see how close they were. She had only seconds of headway. If that.

She was less than a minute from the house now, having rounded another corner onto the correct street. Vastra willed her to be faster, to fly into the house and let her deal with these villains, but she knew from previous bouts of this was not how the dream ended. Jenny was lost and more afraid, and adrenaline alone kept her surging through the darkness when normally she would have collapsed in exhausted tremors.

There was curiously an echo of something else present too like a music track playing in the background. It was a dream within a dream as Vastra now saw it but realized that this was an indication of some memory that Jenny had recalled in an instant before she’d fallen. There was a rush from the side now that tossed her off course and hard onto a knee and hip then flat onto her back right down on the sidewalk. She scrambled to get up and looked around but suddenly she was somewhere else at the same time.

She was running. No not quite running but more like hurrying. It was no longer dark night but rather cheery sunlight in the great walled sanctuary of an estate garden. She was carrying now a bundle of laundry and concerned about getting chores done. If the nightmare about running through the streets had been the night they met, Vastra inferred that this was based on an earlier memory. From the feel of Jenny's body now, it hadn't been a long time before. She was no younger than fifteen and possibly as old as sixteen though not half-starved as she had been at their meeting.

This was confirmed when a voice came from behind her. “Genevieve!” It was the French pronunciation rather than the English, though not in a French accent. It made Jenny bristle but turn around and slow her movement. Coming up behind her now was Thomas Blackthorn, newly knighted and subsequently married to Beatrice, her memory supplied. He jogged up to her, a fit man, not yet obviously beginning to gray, without his mustache, wearing a simple pair of trousers and shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He looked youthful and even handsome.

 _What a difference a few years makes_ , Vastra thought, and was surprised to become aware of Jenny's thought at that moment. If she had expected a schoolgirl crush (though she knew Jenny was unmoved by men) or even a little admiration of a winsome man in his physical and social prime, she was startled to find only distant respect as one to an elder, and a great deal of suspicion. Jenny dropped into a curtsy, not as polished as it was now in real life.

“Uncle, good day,” she greeted him with care and ample respect, but obviously deficient of even the affection with which Jenny had greeted Vastra early in her apprenticeship. For normally friendly Jenny to behave this way spoke volumes about unseen subtext. He took the laundry from her despite some token resistance.

“A pretty maiden should not be carrying laundry, Genevieve. You are our guest, not our servant!” He laughed, slinging the sack over one shoulder. Vastra sensed a great deal of annoyance from Jenny and not only for the reason that came from her mouth next.

“Please, Uncle. Just Jenny.” She inclined her head politely and slowed her pace till they walked together.

“Ah so you've said, so you've said indeed,” he replied jovially, almost teasing. “Jenny and Maggie, my two favorite nieces.”

“Your only nieces,” Jenny pointed out. Normally there would be humor here but there wasn't.

“Quite right.” Thomas looked thoughtful, a gesture that struck Vastra (and Jenny) as annoyingly ingenuine. “But if we are to make court ladies of you both, such Philistine names will not do.”

It occurred to Jenny as it now did to Vastra that Philistines had grand names like “Goliath” but Jenny considered herself alarmingly worthless and in fact stupid, so she said nothing. Vastra wanted to scream but of course could not.

“If it so pleases you, Uncle, then we are all in your debt,” Jenny responded not insincerely but carefully.

The sun played across his boyish face. “You are so beautiful. If only I could have sons and daughters as comely as you, Jenny,” he emphasized her name.

“God willing, you shall, Uncle,” Jenny replied automatically.

His face shifted far away and he took her by the elbow, diverting her from her path and down toward the outer entrance to his sun room. “Your aunt seems to be barren,” he confessed softly. She was silent and shared his grief for the moment. They walked a little ways before she questioned him with her eyes as to where he was leading her. “I have a gift for you,” he explained, “to celebrate you coming to live with us.”

“How generous,” Jenny answered, looking for a possible way out of this, “but you needn't do such a thing. It is I who should be thanking you.”

“So you shall!” he declared dramatically, “By accepting a gift from your aunt and me. But really, Jenny, I cannot believe that your own parents would banish you so. They are not as modern as I. They simply have not come to an understanding.”

There was a flash of memory of Jenny's mother slapping her, then both of her parents, their faces in shadows, telling her to get out and never return, calling her all manner of names and flinging insults based on human superstition and religion. It was a deep cut in Jenny's psyche and it made Vastra disdain the society of apes all the more.

Now Jenny and Thomas reached the outer door of the sun room, which he opened with a key and led her into. In here he had his private office, and in the middle of the floor was a mannequin, upon which was displayed a fine red dress trimmed with fine white lace as delicate as baby's breath, and even finished with some semi-precious jewels made to simulate rubies.

“Good heavens it's too much,” Jenny breathed as he presented it to her with a flourish of hands.

“Nonsense. Try it on! A young lady of court must have clothes. With some schooling and such, we shall make a Lady of you. Your parents will be so proud.” He moved behind her now as she looked at it, trying to remember a time when her aunt, his wife, had been clothed quite so extravagantly. To be sure, he took care of her, but Jenny was certain she didn't own any pieces like this, even including her wedding gown.

There was a pulling at her back and she turned around quickly as the bow tie of her apron came undone and flipped through Thomas's hands. “What are you doing?” she gasped, color leaping to her face.

There was that boyish smile again that had so ensnared her aunt and doubtless others. “Helping you out of those peasant clothes, my dear. It would be so much faster than summoning a maidservant. You're only trying it on for me and we are family after all.”

“By marriage, Sir, and I would have Aunt Beatrice present.” Jenny clutched her apron to her front and backed away immediately glancing at the door, which looked locked.

Rolling his eyes as if she had said something nonsensical, he approached her again, around to the side of the mannequin. “You know, Jenny, you have a very advantageous position now,” he informed her in a conversational tone.

“How is that, Sir?” Jenny wondered, now searching for anything that could be used as a weapon.

“ _Uncle_ , please, _Jenny_.” He was smiling. “Well, your base born parents have cast you out and into my guardianship, where you will be schooled and pampered and given opportunities for advantageous marriage arrangements and the like. Is that not well with you?”

“It is quite well,” Jenny replied, not relaxing. He took a step toward her and she stepped back, continuing, now in slow motion, their dangerous dance.

“Also, I, having little hope for issue of my own, and my wife advanced in years--” It was true that Beatrice was older, but she wasn't beyond childbearing years by any means-- “I might still, in you, find hope for the beautiful family I have always desired.”

Jenny's eyes went wide at this. “How do you mean, Sir?”

“Don't mistake me, I love your aunt. I could not have hoped for a more dutiful or devout wife,” he gesticulated like an actor, “but I knew ever since that day you visited her at work, bringing her lunch care of your kind mother, three years ago, I knew there were gems to be found in the Flint house. Alas, Beatrice is not a mine but rather a dry riverbed as it were.”

 _She was twelve years old you knave!_ Vastra wanted to shriek, but she was trapped inside Jenny, and Jenny was not speaking, not moving, and now, hardly breathing. She stopped altogether as Thomas drew a long sharp knife.

“If things do not work out in our...separate ventures...” he began slowly, bringing the knife right under her chin, then into the neck of her dress against her throat, “then I imagine...” there was a quick movement, and the neck of the gown fell open, “that we,” another slice and her apron fell. The knife went toward one side of her shoulder, cold against her hot skin, and sliced again and again symmetrically until now her sleeves were ruined. “We, could come to an equally amiable... arrangement.” She tried in vain to keep the bodice over her chest but she was afraid-- so afraid-- of the knife, and his strokes were expert as if he had done this many times, cutting away undergarments along with the dress until it all fell down in a pool of jagged fabric at her ankles. All she wore now was a pair of thin drawers that had been knicked already by the blade, and the front piece alone of a ruined chemise, which she clutched like a lifeline, shivering like a leaf, and fighting back tears.

Her voice repeated the same phrase over and over, “Please, please no,” in barely a whisper, tenuous and utterly frightened.

As if he hadn't heard her, or rather, did not care, he drew close to her and she felt the cool wood of the wall behind her, boxing her in. He leaned in close to her ear, his cheek against hers, slightly rough with stubble. She felt the blade slide into her underwear. “Genevieve,” he rasped with a deep, lustful voice, enunciating with measured slowness as if she were his mistress, “Don't tell me you really only like girls. You would make such a perfect...wife.”

They turned and looked at each other, eyes meeting as in a macabre duet. He, confident and happy as if they were already lovers, and she, fearful and desperate. “Perhaps,” he mused, “it would be wrong for me to wait. It might be a better idea to stake my claim on you early-- just in case.” Jenny could not hold in her scream as the knife sliced through her drawers and dropped them to the floor.

He was upon her now, forcing one of her hands away from protecting herself, and onto him as he held the knife aloft, laughing and sighing as though she had eagerly consented to this tryst. She did not scream again, for the blade was too close, too bright, and too cold.

The door flew open then, and her aunt stood there, mouth agape. The rest was a blur of excuses and blame. Surely she had seen the knife, Jenny's mind told Vastra's, but for whatever reason, wife had stood with husband, and Jenny, almost totally naked, shamed, and afraid, had been cast out. She hadn't cared though as her virtue was intact. Anything was surely better than this situation.

But she was wrong.

Suddenly, it was night again, and Jenny was sprawled out on the stones struggling to stand, clutching rocks and gravel as a makeshift weapons as half a dozen faceless men approached her through the darkness.

Bless her heart she was now standing and ready go down fighting, true to her spirit. Yet here again was this fear. She looked around desperately, for help, for deliverance, or anything. Could they be reasoned with? What could she possibly pay them off with? Her thoughts were whirling, but they focused instantly as she flailed in their sudden grasp. Kicking, screaming, struggling, and fighting for her life, her virtue, and even for consciousness as they struck her and _laughed._ Laughed about their prize...and... _payment?_

And then Vastra saw it. Could it even be? Had Jenny seen it too? She was in Jenny's body, reliving the memory from Jenny's point of view. She was absolutely, without a doubt certain that Jenny had seen it. Just there...

 

“ _What did you do?_ !” Jenny was screaming. Vastra shook her head, totally disoriented, not having voluntarily terminated the link, and found herself on the kitchen floor with Jenny, who had been laid in her lap but was now in her face, hysterical. “What did you do?” Jenny repeated, her voice an unhinged, raw mixture of fear, shame, and anger.

Vastra's eyes were wide and fixed on hers. “Jenny, I'm sorry, I had to know. Jenny, it wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault.” She waved her hands before herself as if to show her apprentice that she meant no harm. “You were so distraught and I needed to see it to know what it meant. Why your emotions were screaming before he even crossed our threshold.”

“You saw...” Jenny looked away and sat back on her heels and covered her face. “Did you?”

“I saw everything as you saw it. Is it...” Vastra reached out as if to touch her, but didn't quite, in case she didn't want it, but after a moment, Jenny came into her arms, her head bowed so that her face was unseen.

“Yes,” was all she said, and together, just for a moment, they thought about the last thing that Jenny had seen before she had gone down. A man, standing there, off to the side, mostly in the shadows of a building, drawing himself out of the moonlight, watching the attack that had prompted Vastra's intervention. His face had not been visible, but despite his streetclothes, Jenny had noticed his shiny patent leather shoes before he had sunk into the dark, and from his pocket, as if hastily tucked away, the barest edge of a golden monogram upon a blood red handkerchief.

 

**

 

Deep in her heart, in that moment, Vastra spoke words that she would hide from Jenny. They were born in a darkness that her kindhearted apprentice could not fathom, and she wished always to keep this viscera from her innocent soul. She swore this vow as much to Jenny as to herself, and then to her ancient saurian deities.

_By my blood...I am going to kill him_ .

 


	3. The Tale of the Cowardly Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange story of a knight with peculiar and irrational fears who becomes twisted by his desperation to be rid of his affliction. Also a stranger account of his meeting with an otherworldly creature of water and shadow. This is a story of the birth of darkness and revenge, and cowardice that is beyond corporeal and extends into the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why have I deserted my theme of one-word titles for this chapter? Hmm...I'll leave that for the reader to work out. I have also done something very different in terms of narrative to give you a more fantasy feel. Some rape-y stuff within, but nothing really crazy. 
> 
> Sorry I didn't post this earlier. I was having computer issues. However, now I also have a very short epilogue as well. I hope you enjoy.

 

Once upon a time, there was a noble knight. He had not always been noble, and certainly not always a knight, but he had been blessed many times. He had been born the fifth son of a fifth son. His grandfather, a merchant and shrewd businessman like his father before him, had been wealthy, a first son of a first son, and had doted on his family, but corporeal fortune, divided time and again, is soon infinitesimally small. Almost as small as a fifth son of a fifth son's chances of making a name and fortune for himself.

He had become a soldier, just like his fourth brother, his third brother, and his second brother. Just like his first uncle, his second, his third, and his fourth uncle before him, and his great uncle, the second son, brother to his grandfather. In training, the sergeants did not call him by his Christian name. They were hard and cruel and called him “Quintus” or “Fiver” and any other name they could devise just to tease him about his lowly status, and remind him that he was “Twenty-five times” removed from any hope of fortune.

The young soldier wore his uniform all the time and took great pride in it, to the delight of officers, and to the amusement of his fellows and sergeants who knew his secret and loved to rough him up for it. He wore his uniform lest he put on his personal clothes, which were patched, and hand-me-downs, to include his Church clothes, his shoes, and socks. He was always ashamed, always angry, and always afraid.

In the young soldier's heart there was planted a kernel of this deep fear. It had been planted when his eldest brother had strung him up by his toes over a well and beat him, laughing all the while with his father's other three sons. It had been fostered when his eldest brother had gone to college and he had been told that there would not be enough money to send him, even if maybe his father could afford to send the second brother. It began to take root in nursery school and bloomed as he grew, in his heart, as girls ignored him in favor of first sons, or rich sons. His heart was sucked of the nutrients of innocence and joy as the dark plant inside his soul fed on his memories as those boys who were chased by pretty girls tormented and teased him, or even ran him off the school grounds into the arms of his mother.

“Thomas,” she would tell him very kindly, with her beautiful smile, “do not be so worried. You are smart and handsome. Nothing in the world can buy those things. Not even a first son of a wealthy first son.” He would always feel better when his sweet and comely mother would console him, though this would always be offset by the beating he would get from his father if he ever caught them together.

“Lucy, the boy is a Thorne,” his father would declare, “you'll make him into a little rose if you coddle him that way!”

“Why not both?” his mother would ask innocently, with a little witty grin and a crooked eyebrow that always distracted his father. Thomas never heard the end of this conversation, as he always took the opportunity to run away.

It was this memory that had played in his mind the day he had enlisted, however, when the bored-looking draft sergeant had asked for his name. “Thomas Thorne,” he had mumbled at first, but when the older man had looked at him and asked him to repeat it, the boy replied instead, “No, Blackthorn. Thomas Blackthorn,” for it sounded more noble than his queer surname, and in his heart, which had at this time irreparably darkened, he never wanted to be a part of his family again where he was nothing more than a fifth son of a fifth son.

**

 

The young soldier was sent to India to help a secure a trade route that had been lately besieged by bandits and rebels. It was a mission no one wanted, but poor unpopular “Quintus” had been the first picked. He cursed his luck every day while marching, riding in wagons, or camping amidst unrelenting mosquitoes, smelly, cursing soldiers, and bad water. He did not know that his luck was about to change.

“Mermaids,” the corporal to his left said one night during chow.

“What?” Thomas asked, not sure if he had heard him right.

The corporal spat on the ground, took a swig of water and looked at him like he was stupid. “Mermaids. Got them in the Isles to the North, but they also have them in India, so says the Captain.”

“What like he's seen them?” Another private asked.

“ 'parently. Says they're covered in jeweled scales and they eat that clari...clarified butter from your hands if you have some. They live in the rivers, and if you catch one, and convince her to marry you, she will lead you to a fortune of the gods.”

Thomas snorted in disbelief, but another corporal plunked down across from him. “Sergeant McCaffey says he fucked one but fell asleep before he could propose!”

“That old coot wouldn't know a mermaid from a piece of burn toast, the way he drinks. Don't be stupid,” someone else yelled, and everyone laughed.

Except Thomas. Thomas was watching something else.

It was a light. Just there. Like the moon on metal.

Metal.

Not a mermaid at all.

“Ambush!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, and jumped on his Sergeant who was approaching, just as there was an explosion of powder nearby.

**

His sergeant had died along with two corporals. He had been promoted after the bloody fight by his lieutenant. While Thomas was sad and angry that he hadn't leaped fast enough to save his superior, he could not deny that the rank felt good when he wore it, and when his former fellows snapped to attention when he approached them, it felt even better.

The next few months were even worse as people fell sick, got lost, hurt, or were wounded in combat in this unfamiliar territory on the land route to India. Yet, there was always Thomas, helping carry the wounded and dead, always covering the soldiers, always fighting, never quitting, and roaring like a lion. No one teased him anymore.

“Jesus Tom, how do you fight like that?” they would ask with awe. None of them ever guessed that it was all part of his secret, which he desperately tried to hide. The reason he threw himself into battle, seemingly without a care for himself, is because of the poisonous plant that had undermined much of his inhibitors. Thomas Blackthorn was a coward. Not the normal kind of coward, mind you, the kind of coward who was afraid for his own skin. Rather, he was the kind of coward who feared  _himself_ . Nothing was ever enough to escape this fear that he wasn't enough. Not strong enough, or smart enough, or brave enough... It was an endless parade of fears in his head night after night and year after year. Perhaps his bravery in battle was little more than vain hopes to mimic Ajax and perish in glory, freeing himself at last from the fear that threatened to strangle him. He ran from this fear, from the dark of his nightmares, and into the fire of violence time and again. He needed to distinguish himself. He needed more. He needed to be better.

It was then, no surprise that when his lieutenant was killed less than a year later in the fire of battle, his captain had bestowed upon him a field commission. There was no time to examine the fallen lieutenant's body closely, to wonder about the curiosity of the long straight stab wound that had felled him in a forest where the enemy used kris knives, kukris, and scimitars. Thomas Blackthorn had been so brave in retrieving the body from the ditch where it had fallen, and so devoted was he to his lieutenant, that he himself had dug the grave for him. 

**

He had come home a hero. Lauded by all. He had been gone two whole years and was no longer a boy, though compared to his peers, he seemed to have the Devil's luck. He was neither scarred, nor hardened, grizzled, or haunted by combat as many had been, their innocence having melted off their faces in the first eight months. No, instead, all who saw him received a dapper and handsome young war hero, Lieutenant Blackthorn, who was to be knighted for valor, and not at all a fifth son of a fifth son. Finally he was sure, he would be a knight and escape his peculiar brand of cowardice.

It was not to be.

The cowardly knight went to study law on scholarship. This would be just the career path for him. It would make money and uphold the institution of justice, so he thought. Yet, the more he studied, and the more he learned, the more he wondered. What kind of fortune could be inherited and never diminish?

He had amassed a considerable amount of wealth and spent it on beautiful things he had always desired. Suits, fine shoes, a home on a lake in the countryside, and all manner of things. His favorite was a red silk monogrammed handkerchief. He had seen officers and gentlemen with such things, offering them to sniveling ladies who fawned over their attentions. Now he was to be one of them.

Yet no matter what he ate, bought, or did, there was always this fear. He was not enough. Great as he could be he was just one man, and a man without the hallmark of manhood-- a family and children. He was unproven in this art. The fear creeped in, the suspicion that everyone was whispering about how the great hero's loins were found wanting. No woman had been good enough for him so far, is what he had told himself, but would others think it was for another reason?

The knight, frightened by this, found himself in the finest brothels with other gentlemen, drinking heavily, both to work up the courage to speak to a girl, and to get rid of this fear that clutched him. None of them suited him, and his fellows were watching with needling tongues and jeering faces.

What caught his eye finally was the dark chestnut curls like that of his mother on one of the dancing girls. She was no more than sixteen, he was sure, by her lineless skin and deep green eyes. Cosmetics could not have created the blush beneath the soft skin of her cheeks, nor authored the soft gasps she issued as they had coupled. Him, rutting and fierce, every inch the warrior he was known to be, and her, an innocent flower in a garden of weeds. He had always known he would be more than proficient at this act, and of course he had found this diamond in the rough. He would rescue her from this place come the morning. He vowed this to her, punctuating it again and again with thrusts that perfectly mirrored the voluminous bounce of her small rosy breasts. He professed his love for her, and she for him, and like the sealing of a marriage vow, he filled her with his fire.

It seemed at first that he woke to birdsong with the early morning sun, and reached for his maiden, perhaps for another row before he went to work. A light slap brought him fully awake. It was not morning. The light had been from the lantern at the bedside, shining in his face. There were no birds except for the cheaply embroidered ones on the garish curtains. And also, there was no maiden.

“Who are you?” he questioned the woman before him.

“Who am I? Wow, Mister, I think you drank a little harder than you thought,” came the harsh nasal voice from scarlet, lacquered lips. He squinted and was shocked. Could this be her? His beauty? She was older than she had looked earlier, he realized, as subtle lines could now be seen here and there, and her eyes, no longer innocent and full of pleas that he be gentle. Rather, they were serpentine, sharp, and cunning. The eyes of a specific kind of artist. A professional. He did not like them so much now, and he began to feel afraid. She stood there naked, arms crossed, looking impatient. Even her breasts seemed dun and not nearly as light as they had not one hour before. He frowned in distaste. “Look, you owe the Madame for your drinks and my fee, all right? Hello? You need to get out of here.”

He looked up at her face again and could scarcely bear to do so. “For...your fee? But I...I thought you...” he could not form the words.

“What did you think? You believed that load of horse shyte?” The whore laughed in a way that made him cringe. “Look, Chester, I didn't know it was your first time till we were doing it, but you'll get better okay? Go pay up, and you can come back tomorrow. By the time you find some filly to marry, you'll have that nervousness all worked out.”

“My name is Thomas,” said the knight, “and what ever do you mean? We made love, you and I, for hours! You said--”

“Hours? You couldn't afford me for hours, Sir Minute...” she laughed and pronounced the word again, a different way, which made him look down, then up again, and rage sputtered up till the thought he might burst. She was still giggling at her own witless joke when his hands came around her throat. She could not scream, could not fight him, and was totally unprepared. Her eyes were still questioning and disbelieving even after her body had fallen limp upon the bed, staring now at nothing as he fled the room in shame, fear, and disgust.

**

 

Night and day for several years he worked and researched, driven by his fear. At last he had his answer as he gazed upon one of the laundry maids playing on her lunch break with her two beautiful nieces one day. Beauty and intelligence. That was the true treasure. His mother had been telling him all along, he realized now. He had both of these in spades as had his father. Beauty. That was the one thing in the world worth possessing forever. Even if diluted by poor matching, beauty could still emerge down the line. It was a purer thing than gold and transcended all class and poverty. With his newly made nobility, he could elevate his sons and daughters, beautiful children, with his keen mind, into the highest castes. With this as his new obsession, a panacea to his poisonous inner fear, he decided to go talk to the pretty laundry maid.

Many years passed before the planted fear in his soul which had laid mostly dormant but for moments when it drove his greed and ambition, had reason to bloom again.

 

**

He had married a virtuous woman with notable beauty, but when she bore him no children at all, let alone the paragons of his own valued handsomeness that he so desired, the cowardly knight again began to feel the threat of oblivion come upon him slowly. He seemed destined to fade away with no mark and no wonder of himself left in the world. When his wife died, the cowardly knight knew that he would need to do something, anything, to secure his heirs and rid himself of this fear once and for all.

The loss of his wife and prospects with his eldest niece by marriage were of no consequence to the knight-turned-lord. He still had another niece who was even more beautiful than the first, though perhaps not as clever. It would be a good thing, the cowardly knight thought to himself, for she would give him no trouble. All he needed to do was convince her parents to let him take her into his guardianship. They were poor and he was rich. Surely something would be arranged.

He was nearly home. His summer home was a beautiful mansion on a small island in a lake in the country, far from the violent, thieving poor. It was here that he would seduce his young niece and finally make the fortune he had always wanted. A bevy of beautiful children, all bearing his mind, looks, and noble name. Finally, he would be immortal through his perfect offspring.

The carriage ride had been so long that he decided to stretch his legs and walk along the misty bank. The sun was setting but it was still light enough to see, so whistling, the knight wandered far along the path away from his house, thinking of all the wonders that awaited him. There was a fresh smell of grass and trees that always calmed his nerves. In addition was the warm smell of salt and fresh herbs like the wild plants that grew here and there all over the path and into the forest and over the hills beyond. Something left a slight tang in the air that reminded him faintly of cleaning his weapons back in the army, vaguely metallic, and quite nostalgic.

He came down through some small trees and scrub and approached the water. There was something out there. At first, he wasn't sure, but the mist cleared just enough so that when he squinted, he could make out a vaguely human form. A swimmer? There shouldn't be many people here right now. His nearest neighbors were a mile down on the other side of the lake. “Hello?” he meant to call out but it all came out as a whisper.

It was then that he heard the singing. It wasn't quite singing, and something slightly like wailing or birdsong, and not in English for sure. It wasn't any language he had ever heard before, in fact, though somehow he felt like he understood it, at least on a very basic level. It drew him nearer. His feet moved on their own now, closer, over the bank and into the water without any notice of his expensive shoes, socks, and trousers.

Nearly up to his hips in cold water now, he approached the figure, trying to find his voice, but shockingly voiceless. It seemed that he was just out of arm's reach from her, wrapped in the strange musical sound when he saw her there.

It was a woman, but even more than that. She was turned slightly away from him now, but he could see her in profile. She was nude, and soaking wet, and her skin glistened. She seemed adorned in exotic jewelry, dense nets of gold and emeralds instead of garments. Her ears were long and tapered like a fairy, but they were fin-like and delicate, gossamer even, like wings. She was singing softly now, to herself, but stopped as he drew near, and fell silent as she turned toward him.

He stammered and breathed the name of his beautiful niece, but no of course it wasn't. Strangely, the creature before him, in certain light, looked quite a bit like her, but even more perfect. It was his niece but dripped in riches and unearthly perfect without a single flaw, like porcelain, and eyes the color of the sky. They were strikingly human, those eyes, and yet, glowed like azure fireflies. A word of beauty could not describe this creature. She was more than perfect. She was divine. A goddess in the flesh.

A mermaid, he realized, and reached into his pocket. He had a small foil packet of butter in his pocket from the train, he discovered. When had he picked that up? It didn't matter. He reached out slowly with it in his hand. The creature looked afraid for just a moment-- something that made him terribly excited. Perhaps fear in other people made his own inner demons seem quieter. It made him the predator instead.

Then there was a magical moment that extended as she raised her arm, her eyes so inquisitive and wide like a deer's. Gingerly, she took it from him in two fingers, which he noticed were smooth and shiny as if molded from emerald with black nails that looked like rich ebony. She smelled it, never taking her eyes off of him, and looked confused as her sensual lips twisted downward.

Hands offered to her, palms up, he closed his fingers around hers. “Here,” he murmured as he would to a wounded soldier, “open it like this.” He unfolded it carefully and revealed the yellow pad. She sniffed it, and placed it to her lips, then smiled.

Immediately he was obsessed. Every inch of his being screamed for her, revered her, and worshiped her. All thoughts of any other human woman left his mind and would never again reenter. “Be mine,” he stammered, his eyes unwilling to leave her even to blink. Did she even speak English?

She froze and then leaned in, smiling behind the shiny foil, secretively. Did he imagine her lips whispering against his? He closed his eyes to feel it. There was coldness, smooth, and sweetened from the creamy butter, but immediately, she moved away. He opened his eyes and she had vanished leaving him soaked and cold in the glassy water with nary a splash as indication of her path.

That night he dreamed of her. Those gold-dusted eyelashes, those sumptuous lips, and her full breasts so smooth and looking as soft as a baby's skin. “I must have you,” he begged her, reaching for her, but finding her ever out of reach.

Her scent was like that of herbs and metal, strangely dry for a creature of the water. She was retreating into the mist. He reached out to her again, and caught her by the shoulder. Her eyes were no longer as fearful as a fawn's, but clear and mournful. “It is not possible,” she told him, her voice like music. It thrummed in his veins.

“Why?” he had meant to demand an answer of her, but it came out like an animal's bleating.

She rotated in the cold liquid space around them, facing him. He could not help but look down and take in the look and shape of her body. Desire was snake's coil within him. Her voice summoned his eyes back to her face. “I am afraid, my lord,” she whispered.

“I am powerful and I can protect you, give you anything you want.” He was not the suave and confident knight anymore. He had meant to be but now he was just pleading. She was beyond his ability to court. He wasn't stupid, but his need for her overwhelmed his facade.

“I am afraid of you, my lord,” came her voice again, almost within his mind rather than his ears. The mist was closing around them. Though he now held her in his arms, it seemed that she was evaporating before his eyes. “I know who you are. You are powerful and rich. You are tied to this world. You will steal me and hurt me. My sisters will never see me again.”

“That's not true,” he lied, “I am in love with you and I want you to become my wife. I would never hurt you. Once we are married, you can have anything at all.”

“I cannot believe you, my lord.” She was almost invisible now. “You would steal my treasures and surely discard me.”

“What can I do to make you believe me?” he cried.

“Discard your power, and then come find me.”

He woke up and was alone and afraid. With the mysterious siren, he had felt unafraid for the first time in many years. If not for her beauty, then for this sudden bravery, he swore to win her by any means.

The cowardly knight went on a mission. His elder and younger nieces were forgotten entirely, as was his wife, and even his beautiful mother. His true wealth was coming to him. The rest was merely trifles.

**

 

He heard her singing weeks later and had been waiting, searching every evening for her to return. He rushed out to her and splashed clumsily into the lake toward her. She turned to him, her face full of an unimaginable sadness.

“I did it!” he called to her, “I have sold and given away all of my wealth, beautiful one. I have only my house, which we can live in. With your treasure, we can rebuild our fortune and live humbly with our family. All that matters is you, my love.”

“You are trying to trick me,” she chided him, her eyes not even angry. They were full of disappointment and distance. “You have given your wealth to family. Who among them would not return your fortune to you, or help you in any way? You could return to your kin and leave me with nothing. This house you have roots you here in this world and leaves me alone.”

“No,” he cried, frustrated, “take me to your world. All that matters is you. Believe me.”

She retreated into the water now. “You do not love me. You have lied to me.”

“Give me another chance!” he beseeched her, falling into the water upon his knees with a great splash, wetting up to his chest. “I am your servant, my lady!”

“No,” she replied, “come to me when you have given up your attachments in this world. When you are truly mine at last.”

“How can I know that you will come to me?” he cried, his face ashen, and coldness in his bones.

Her countenance shifted to distinct disdain, and she looked down at her wrist. Around it was a golden bracelet he had never seen before, comprised of three many times-twisted rose-tinged gold filaments, suspending several large crimson gems which looked like garnets or rubies. It smelled strange. Not bad at all, but every bit of it bore the mark of unworldly craftsmanship. It was too fine. Too bright. Too perfect. She held it out to him. It was as heavy as many bars of gold, which surprised him, but not as much as when he put it on his own wrist and it was immediately as light as the mist itself. He turned it this way and that looking at its clarity and every facet as each reflected his face. There could be no mistake as to its richness. He looked up at her, but she was gone.

**

When next the siren sang, it was on a bright moonlit night. She had made a small perch along an outcropping of rock on the other side of the lake beneath a small tree. The water below her was like glass and sky above her equally so, filled with stars so that she seemed to float in a sea of them, framed by two moons. Her voice echoed like bells against the ancient stones, hillocks, and trees. It rustled against the grass and vibrated the dirt itself. Her face was turned toward the light, and it shined along her jeweled, naked skin, bathing her in a pure white glow.

It was then a man approached her from over water and rocks. He was wearing naught but rags, once fine clothes and hosiery, now filthy, wet, singed, and torn. His beard was straggly, having grown out over many weeks or perhaps months, and was also partially burned away on one side of his cheek. Hair grew long and matted, covering one eye, and falling in choppy waves along his face. One would have thought the man no more than a beggar, but for the fine bracelet he wore around one wrist, with gems like rubies or garnets glowing faintly against his dirt-mottled skin.

“I have done it all, my love, that you have asked,” he coughed, as though fire had burned his throat and never left. His eyes were fixed upon her but they were wild and haunted. His desire for her, his fears of not having her, and the promise of untold treasures had driven him quite mad. “I have given up my name, my titles, and all my worldly fortune. I have abandoned my family, blood and marriage, and torched my mansion and lived as I am. All for you.” He rushed to her, and she made no move to stop him as he clutched her to his chest, feeling her soft skin, so warm despite the cold air and water. There was that scent in the air of herbs, metal, and warmth. “Marry me, Lady Siren. I have nothing more to give up to you.”

She did not respond at once, and in frustration, he laid her down upon the wet stones. “You are mine by right!” he bellowed from on top of her, enraged by her composed and rather dispassionate face. It was too beautiful. It was blinding. Infuriating. No mortal woman would do. He would have her, and all of her sisters as well, he had decided, as soon as it could be arranged. He would make it so. He would convince them as he had this one, and then he would fear no more. He would be greater than any man. His kingdom would be built on magic, emeralds, gold, rubies and the supple flesh of mermaid virgins. He would take this one now, among the reeds, if he wished. He deserved her, and everything that mating with her entailed.

“Patience, my lord,” she whispered, and without meaning to, he stilled until they both sat up and looked at one another. “I will give you everything you deserve. You have done all that I asked. Are you ready for your reward?”

“Give it to me,” he growled, and was immediately gratified by the way she moved, fluidly before him as if floating even in the air. She was glorious as her lips grazed his ear.

“She would not approve of it, you know,” said the siren with a subtle hiss, “she is far more merciful than I.”

His hands locked around her hips enough to bruise her despite her jeweled skin. Her face was moving over his now as if to swoop in for a kiss. “I care not of whom you speak,” he growled, “you shall give me all that is mine by right!”

“Very well, my lord,” came the humming, singing response, and the herbal scent that had been filling his senses was suddenly absent. . He stared at her mouth and only then noticed something odd. Did all mermaids have forked tongues, he wondered, but was so hypnotized by her kisses falling like rose petals against his face that only until she reached his right eye, that she also had very

 

very

 

sharp

 

_teeth_.

 

**

 

Lord Blackthorn was never heard from again. Many said he had been brutally murdered after running afoul of a crime boss in the city, and that his body had been torched after his mansion by the lake had been attacked. A few whispered that he had gone stark raving mad and had been seen wandering all over the countryside, splashing through rivers and lakes and screaming about a mermaid.

Many many years later, when all the families in the surrounding area had left or forgotten the knight, some boys made a grisly discovery while playing after a storm on a narrow outcropping of rock opposite to where an old mansion had once stood and perhaps burned down.

It was a human skull, curiously denuded of all flesh by keener tools than anyone could guess, and certainly too sharp and clean for animal teeth. In each eye socket, wedged so hard into the bone that even years of being buried, then washed out by the flood waters had not loosened them, were two large semi-precious stones, convincing facsimiles of rubies. Also, even stranger, was that wedged in the mouth, and anchored in what had been the brain case, was the remnant of what perhaps had once been a fine, crimson, silk handkerchief.

 

 

 


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sisters meet and discuss a sudden change in the younger's fortune. She wonders also at the oddity of her older sister's employment.

 

“So he just... left it all to you guys?” Jenny Flint was shocked as her younger sister nodded vigorously.

Gone was any trace of Maggie Flint's cockney accent now, and she looked every inch a lady in a wonderful deep green gown that matched her eyes. She was a much more innocent version of Jenny in the shape of her face, and was shorter, despite her heels. Her hair was sandier, and her eyes were more like their mother's, but the family resemblance was there. Jenny missed her mother, her father, and had missed her sister most of all.

“Mother and Father won't let you come home,” Maggie frowned and looked about to cry, “but I swear Jenny, when I am married you will be welcomed into my home. If you wish.” Her older sister was composed as a statue, and seemed unbothered. She stared out over the cliffs to where the ocean crashed upon jagged black rocks. They had been walking together in hopes of watching the fleet come home, but their carriage had gotten lost and arrived a little too late. The crowd had disbursed, and they had found themselves in comforting solitude. Maggie ducked behind a parasol. Her sister, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sapphire tie, matching vest, and long dark skirt, seemed unbothered by the cold and salt spray. There was a sternness to her that had not been present the last time the sisters had been together a few years ago. She had overheard their uncle (God rest his soul), say that Jenny's employer had had something to do with it.

“Maggie, don't worry about me,” Jenny said finally, looking back at her sister with the same kind smile she had always had, “Your new husband would have a fit I'm sure. Besides, I'm the older sister. I'm supposed to look out for you.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “We're family, Jenny. I don't care what anyone says. You're my sister. I love you, and I won't have you working like a servant when you can just--”

Jenny put her arms around her and Maggie felt like crying as she held onto her sister. “Madame Vastra is a very good person, Maggie. She's...private, and a bit peculiar, but--”

“Uncle says she's... _perverting_ you!” Maggie looked up at her sister, eyes full of concern.

Jenny sighed and patted her head as she had when they were children. “You know very well what my 'perversion' was, and long before she hired me. The same is true today, Maggie. It would not do for you to associate with me if you wish to make your way in polite society.” She took her sister by the shoulders and looked at her seriously. “Besides, are you taking the word of someone who was raving about a...what was it?”

“A mermaid. Father says he was screaming about a mermaid,” Maggie replied just as seriously, before the two of them collapsed in fits of wild laughter. “Can you believe it?” she asked Jenny, wiping a tear from her eye with a gloved finger.

“He definitely lost his marbles, the poor man,” her sister agreed heartily. They began to walk back toward the carriage, hand-in-hand as they had always done.

“Oh, I have a gift for you,” Jenny announced suddenly as if she had forgotten.

“For me? It is I who should-- oh!” Maggie exclaimed incredulously as Jenny placed a beautiful ivory cameo wreathed in a cushioned lace to form a brooch, in her palm. “Jenny you couldn't possibly afford this on a maid's salary!”

Her sister's smug smile answered her. “I made it, actually. Madame Vastra encourages me to learn many skills. She is...more generous that she lets on. I seem to have a bit of a knack for it.”

“You're an artist and a genius!” Maggie laughed. “Here put it on me!” She handed the cameo to Jenny who pinned it at her throat. “It's lovely. Oh Jenny thank you!”

“Well, hey, Maggie, listen to me,” Jenny quieted her and was serious again. “If ever you need help, you can seek me by means of Madame Vastra. If you ever cannot, for any reason, hold that brooch very tightly and say this.” She said a word that Maggie had never heard before but sounded freakishly like a snake's hiss. “I will find you. I swear it.”

“You have become so serious, my dear sister,” Maggie told her, looking melancholy, “but I will treasure this, and not forget what you've said. But would Madame Vastra...”

“She will never turn away a member of my family, Maggie. I can promise that.” Jenny responded solemnly as if she had known what her sister had been thinking. “I know that employers are often fickle, but she is never. She never hesitates and never wavers.  I am safe with her. I used to have terrible nightmares and lately... well... Things are different. I can't really explain, but...She is...aside from you, my family now.” She shrugged.

“Your...employer?” Maggie crooked an eyebrow just as Jenny so often did. “I am not sure I understand, Jenny.”

She shrugged helplessly, unsure of what to say. Perhaps she meant to say how well she was treated, or how strong Vastra had helped her become, but she found herself utterly without words and looked at Maggie with open hands.

To her amazement, her sister only laughed. “Very well, Jenny, I should very much like to meet the Great Veiled Detective some time. Perhaps you could arrange it?” she was teasing but Jenny looked beyond her. She turned around to see what she was looking at.

A figure in black was walking up the road toward them. It appeared to be a woman in full skirts and a veil, flowing only gently despite the crisp breeze. At first she had seemed far away but suddenly much closer as though she had been walking unreasonably fast. An optical illusion, Maggie decided, for her gait was no more strained than a leisurely stroll.

“It seems your wish is coming true. Your luck is truly remarkable, Sister,” Jenny teased.

The first thing Maggie Flint thought as her sister's employer found her way to them, as her veil caught the breeze for a moment, was that this was not a normal woman at all. Mermaid, she thought to herself without really knowing why, but forgot this thought once the lady extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Flint,” she announced in a strong, kind voice. Her grip was firm and gentle, and clearly human.

“The pleasure is all mine, Madame Vastra,” she replied genially and smiled as she watched her sister look at her employer with a specific kind of gaze. It was a look of trust and respect, and not a small touch of something else, like electricity between them. She understood perfectly, even if they themselves did not.

 

 _Hmm, family indeed,_ she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to end a dark piece on a happier note and establish Jenny's new family. Her sister will not factor into my stories much, but she is an anchor in the human world for Jenny. I also wanted there to be a bit of a transition here, to show that Jenny, in a way, is leaving her old human life largely behind in order to throw her lot in with Vastra.
> 
> What is Vastra's role in Maggie's new fortune and Blackthorne's disappearance? I leave that to you to decide. 
> 
> Also, yes, the brooch is something like the one we see Clara wear in Deep Breath, in case you were wondering.
> 
> By the way, with regards to the strange chapter 3... Those of you who have read Beauties and Beasts know that I portray Vastra's naked body very differently. It is on purpose that Vastra never actually appears in this chapter... In the flesh. Or at least not that Blackthorne saw.
> 
> Some of you might have astutely identified the scent of Silurian insense that was(possibly) used. Let us be clear-- Thomas Blackthorne was totally crazy at the end of his life, and his accounts of reality should not be trusted. *evil laugh*
> 
> As for the siren herself, and why she resembled his elder niece sometimes, and to whom she was referring at the very end... Well, perhaps she was real but perhaps she was a Silurian psychic construct-- a most stubtle and torturous weapon. Revenge is a dark thing after all.


End file.
